


slow dancing in the darkness

by TheSushiMonster



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Universe, Don't Examine This Too Closely, During Canon, Emotional Sex, F/M, No Plot/Plotless, Outdoor Sex, don't think too hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSushiMonster/pseuds/TheSushiMonster
Summary: Theon’s teeth may graze his lip. Or maybe his eyes linger on hers instead. Or maybe there’s wildfire singing in her veins and Theon is the spark. He grows close again. “It’s the last night before the end of all things… and you wish to spend it with me?”It’s phrased as a question, but Sansa knows what it really is: a fact. The truth.Sansa meets his eyes. “I wish to spend all my nights with you, Theon Greyjoy.”





	slow dancing in the darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Last night I had a dream. I was watching HBO and they were playing deleted scenes... including new theonsa content. When I woke up, having realized it was all a dream, I immediately wrote down as much as I could remember. From there, I expanded it into this. 
> 
> It makes no logistical sense, so just... ignore that. It's more about tone and feeling and characters anyway. In theory, takes place during 8x02.

 

  
  


 

 

The sun has just started to set when Sansa pulls Theon outside the castle walls. A small carriage awaits them. Theon starts as if to question her, but Sansa nudges him inside before following. She places the blanket she quickly grabbed from her chambers on her lap.

“You are well?” she finally asks, when the castle walls begin to shrink. She wants privacy in the trees, but she doesn’t want to wander too far.

Theon hunches, shoulder heavy, but nods. “Better. Yara is - Yara is free and I am here, so I am… better.”

“It may be our last night together - ”

He suddenly straightens. “Is that why you - my Lady - ”

“Theon.” Sansa might rest on his shoulder, just slightly, given the cramped space of their carriage. Or maybe his touch anchors her. “You - you used to spend much time in Wintertown… in the company of - ”

“At the brothels,” says Theon and maybe she imagines a small smile on his lips. Theon does not smile much, not anymore, she’s noticed. He shifts in his seat; somehow he’s closer now, his warm breath tickling her face.

“Would you like to take their company?”

The sun has begun to set, the sky painted in strokes of pinks and oranges and navy. Theon studies her, his gaze lingering from her eyes to her lips back down her hair before resting once more on her own gaze. Sansa knows _why_ she pulled Theon out of the castle and into the forest before… but now, with him staring at her, Sansa wonders if she needs to worry about winter when the storm in Theon’s eyes may capture her whole anyway.

“No.” Theon’s gaze does not waver. “What about you?”

Surprised, Sansa frowns and brings a bit of space between them. She cannot think when he’s - he’s - _there_. “Me?”

“Your friends? Where are they?”

Finally, Sansa can look away from him. Her eyes linger on the ground, a blur of brown and black as the carriage begins to near the treeline. Her hands twist in the blanket on her lap. “I don’t have many here. Not anymore.”

Theon’s teeth may graze his lip. Or maybe his eyes linger on hers instead. Or maybe there’s wildfire singing in her veins and Theon is the spark. He grows close again. “It’s the last night before the end of all things… and you wish to spend it with me?”

It’s phrased as a question, but Sansa knows what it really is: a fact. The truth.

Sansa meets his eyes. “I wish to spend all my nights with you, Theon Greyjoy.”

And she knows, even if perhaps he doesn’t wish to acknowledge it or believe he deserves it, Theon wants to kiss her. So she captures the moment and his lips and kisses him.

Theon hesitates but does not freeze or stiffen; then his hand flows through her hair while the other rests on her knee. One hand on his shoulder and the other tangled in the curls at the back of his neck, Sansa pours what she can into this kiss - a real kiss, one with someone she _wants_ to kiss, who she knows won’t hurt her or her family… who would _die_ for her… It’s soft and gentle, like him, but no less passionate.

She presses harder, needing to be closer, but Theon pulls back, his eyes flickering to the man riding the horses and pulling the carriage. Sansa leaves a gentle peck on his lips - the fire grows when they meet, the true winter storm - before releasing him.  

“Sir! The guard in question stops, as do the horses and their movement with a lurch. Tugging gently on Theon’s hand, which she still holds tightly in her own, she steps out of the carriage. “Here is fine. Return to the castle.”

“How about you, my Lady?”

Sansa frowns, not having thought that far out in her planning, but Theon squeezes her hand. “Leave a horse. We can ride back,” he whispers to her. She’s noticed he does that; it’s rare he directly addresses strangers, preferring to defer to her instead. Sansa squeezes his hand back before relaying the message to the guard.

The guard hesitates, but when Sansa does not waver, he follows her instructions. Perhaps he acknowledges that tonight is different. Perhaps he wishes to return to his own family.

Once the guard disappears, carriage in tow, Sansa turns back to Theon.

“Follow me?” she asks, one hand on the reigns of the horse and the other interlocked with his; Theon holds the blanket now in his free hand. Theon replies with seriousness, an intensity in his eyes. No smile, just raw sincerity.

“Anywhere.”

Sansa swallows before leading them into the trees, into a semblance of privacy. Tying the horse to a tree, near a tiny stream, Sansa steadies her hands. It’s darker now, the sun almost completely set, but Theon is a beacon. His body is warmth and comfort and light and when Sansa turns to him, he is standing there, a respectable distance physically, but emotionally he is wedged deep in her heart.

Walking forwards, slowly, she watches him. Theon does not shrink back, but there is still hesitance in his presence, tugging him away from her, away from reality. Her hands land on his wrists and he stills before his entire body sighs, as if her touch has loosened the ropes fastened around him. Her fingers slip to his fingers, taking the blanket from him. Quietly, she leaves him; she spreads the blanket onto the ground, all the while listening for him - for hitches in his breathing, trembles in his feet, fear in his movements.

But when Sansa turns back to face him, the sun practically set and the stars twinkling above them, she sees him in the shadows but he does not look as haunted as she may have expected. Instead, he steps towards her. Closer and closer until -

He holds her face in his hand, fingers tangled in her hair. Sansa freezes; for a moment, in the shadows, Theon is not Theon… he is faceless and haunting, a ghost. He is taller, scary, rougher - but then his thumb draws gentle spirals on her cheek and maybe a tear has fallen, but he wipes it away. “Sansa?”

But the man in front of her _is_ Theon. Theon Greyjoy, kind, gentle, brave… so, so strong. She drags her feet closer until they are toe to toe, her hands on his chest. His heartbeat is strong, warm under her palms. It is easier to watch his throat as it moves when he swallows, the veins in his neck pulsing. Finally, after several moments, she looks at him.

His eyes are the sea. They are not dark alleys or endless caverns. They are the sea and salt and iron, like him.

“Okay?” he whispers, voice as soft as the silence around them.

And she is the Red Wolf, winter and snow and steel.

So Sansa answers him with her lips.

This kiss is deeper - still gentle, still slow, but now they kiss with souls and tongue, slow dancing in the darkness. Maybe she’s shaking from nerves, or maybe it’s the way Theon holds her, embraces her, his kisses whispering truths into her mouth. _Thank you for saving me._

_We saved each other._

_Save me again._

_Hold on and don’t let go._

Sansa begins to sink to the ground and Theon follows her. On bended knees in front of each other, Sansa unties his tunic, pushes it off his shoulders.

Theon stops when her fingers feel his skin. “Sansa - ”

She refuses to stop, not when her body feels like a raging storm, waves crashing against the rocks. She needs this. She needs _him_.

“Untie my dress, Theon.” Her fingers stop their movement and even in the darkness, she can see his face is cautious. “I want this. If - if you do too… untie my dress, Theon.”

After a moment - it stretches, as if memories assault him and doubts plague him and ghosts haunt him - his shaking fingers wrap around her, bringing her closer to his chest. As he works on her dress, Sansa studies his body. She is too close to see, but she can _feel_.

She feels the raised bumps, the deep scars, the missing skin. She feels the physical evidence of his time in captivity - and while her bruises are internal, festering just under the skin, she knows his heart is just as scarred as his skin. Sansa knows she cannot heal him, knows he cannot heal _her_ , but she also knows they are too connected not to try.

Her dress loosens and Theon tugs at the sleeves. Sansa does not waste time letting them drop; once her arms are free, she kisses his shoulders, his collarbone. Any inch of skin she can reach. Theon pulls down her dress, inch by inch, to give her warning, to prepare her. But Sansa is prepared, is ready, has been since Theon appeared in Winterfell, ready to give himself to her.

 _If you’ll have me_ , he had said.

She’ll have him. She’ll have him on her skin, beside her, in her heart. Anywhere he would like to be, she’ll have him.

And right now, with Theon’s steady fingers drawing waves on her skin, she suspects he just wants _her_.

Moving to kiss him again, she whispers into his lips. “Please.” She isn’t quite sure what’s asking for, but Theon does. He captures her in a deeper kiss, like the ocean pulling her under, soft riptides of heat building in her blood and bones. Her dress drops further, her breasts now against his chest. Sprinkles of hair and the scars rub against her skin; it only heightens the pleasure.

Theon groans into her lips. “Sansa - I cannot - ”

“We can only be who we are,” she says quietly, her heart racing even faster as his hand slides against the side of her breast. His hands are still gloved, but she still burns. “I don’t know - this is my first - ” Her blush is fierce and Theon kisses her cheeks.

“Let me take care of you, then?” His tongue dips into her ear and she shivers. “Let me try to be what you deserve.”

“I deserve you.”

Theon kisses her shoulder before nudging her to lay down; they lie side by side, face to face, before he pulls her dress all the way down to her ankles. The cold air tickles her naked skin, but Theon holds her, one arm to rest her neck, the other around her back. They kiss again, as if it’s been too long since their lips embraced, a reminder that they are together, in this moment, where nothing else matters but this, here. Them.

They continue kissing, even when Theon moves her so she rests on her back. His one arm remains cradling her head, but the other hand now massages her breast. Moaning, Sansa moves closer to him. His skin is heat and warmth and safety and Theon continues to nip her lips, his tongue both soothing and burning.

His hand travels further now and her breathing hitches. Theon pauses, his kisses moving from her lips to her forehead, her hair. “Alright?”

The weight of his gloved hand on her stomach is gentle, light… but still a presence, still there. Just as he is missing fingers, the whole is not the sum of its parts… He is still her anchor. The fire building in her core only doesn’t consume her because he is here, holding her, whispering into her hair. Nodding, her hand curls into his neck. “Alright.”

His hand slips further until he cups her and Sansa turns to bury her nose into his skin. He smells of salt and iron and snow and winter, of both Greyjoy and Stark, of something wholly Theon; when his finger slips between her folds, her breath leaves her and Theon catches it with a tightened embrace.

“You are beautiful, Lady Sansa.” His finger swirls, tiny circles. Everything is slow, measured, careful. But not because he is not fully invested; his pulse races against her lips, his muscles ripple under her hands. His finger slips further down, to her entrance; leather against sensitive skin. He is careful because he _cares_ and it only makes the liquid fire in her melt onto his finger. “ _Gods_ , you are stunning.”

His touch is a caress; he coaxes melted silver from her body to his fingers, drawing spirals. She feels herself tightening, something building within her heart, within her soul. Her teeth unconsciously graze his skin but Theon does not flinch; instead, his movements grow sharper, more determined. She feels like she is rising; her back arched and his arms her tethers, almost floating… weightless. It feels like that moment, hand in hand with the man currently around her, the moment before they stepped off the wall.

And although Theon never enters her - somehow he knows that she can’t accept that, not yet, just how she knows there’s a reason his breeches and gloves are still on - Sansa feels the fire consume her completely, just as it did when they _flew_ to the snow below.

Escape. Control. Hope.

Freedom.

Sansa might be shaking, might be flying, might be completely mindless - all she feels is pleasure, singing through her veins and gripping her bones. Theon whispers into her ear, something soft and strong, as she lands softly into the pillow of snow and him. The pounding of her heart is loud, but it’s the steady rhythm of her heart’s song.

And the lyrics are clear. _Theon Theon Theon_.

His whispers are clear into her skin too. “Sansa, oh _Sansa_ \- ”

Their breathing is the only noise between the trees. Just night and silence, just them. Even as her heart begins to settle, Sansa does not let go of him. Theon wipes his hand on the ground behind her and draws her closer to his chest before folding the blanket over both of them. Their embrace is just as tight as the one hours ago, only down on the ground as they lay together. Legs tangled, arms around each other, hearts residing next to one another….

Sansa exhales.

They remain that way for a long while, intertwined and silent, just listening to each other exist.

The thought vibrates through her - _this_ is pleasure. This is safety and comfort and maybe even -

But while the affection building in her chest for Theon must be reflected in his, she cannot return this _feeling_ , this intimate moment that connects her to him, to offer _him_ safety and comfort and especially…

The words escape her lips, into his skin. “I’m sorry I cannot - ”

His sigh is heavy, but not rough. He turns in her arms so she is facing his back instead. Pulling back and sitting up, Sansa holds her chest together. The scars on his skin are branded like a treasure map. But the gold at the end of the journey is his heart, his soul, his identity - and while _he_ may have stole it, Theon has taken it back and Sansa feels her heart crack.

“Theon - I did not mean to - ”

“Come here Sansa.” His head turns, a small smile finally on his lips. His upper arm reaches up and captures her hand, interlocking their fingers. Sansa moves back to him, her arm now wrapped around his waist. Lying on the ground, she does not care about the dirt or the cold or how hard it is. She buries her face into his neck, his hair, breathing him.

Theon squeezes her fingers, kisses each knuckle.

“We can only be who we are.”

And Sansa can only kiss the place where his hair meets his neck, a small smile on her face.

When Death arrives, when they are forced apart, at least Sansa knows what it means to live.


End file.
